


When Vetinari Causes Vimes To Have A Mild Existential Crisis And Sybil Is No Help At All

by wearerofthehat



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Choose your own ship, Gen, I don't really know - Freeform, I tagged this as gen, Threesome - F/M/M, but this could just as easily be m/m, or f/m
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-21
Updated: 2015-03-21
Packaged: 2018-03-18 19:50:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3581754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wearerofthehat/pseuds/wearerofthehat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“But do you really hate me that much?” said Vetinari. If his voice had been deceptively light before, now it was as soft as a knife wrapped in satin. “Did it ever occur to you that you might get poisoned as well as me? You spent quite a bit of time here at the Palace, over that week.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	When Vetinari Causes Vimes To Have A Mild Existential Crisis And Sybil Is No Help At All

It was a week after Vimes had let himself into the Oblong Office to find the Patrician slumped over his desk in an arsenic induced coma and he was again in the Oblong Office as if it had never happened at all. Then Vetinari spoiled it.

“Drumknott tells me that Dragon King of Arms attempted to frame you for my poisoning. I wonder where he got that idea from.” Vetinari’s tone had all the deceptive lightness of the tread of a stalking tiger. Vimes tried not to stiffen, and reminded himself that he had always known that anything said about the Patrician might as well be said to the Patrician’s face; he was sure to hear sooner or later.

“Well, I have not made any real effort to hide the fact that I hate your very guts, sir.” If he was worried that such an admission would bring retribution down upon him, he needn’t have bothered. Vetinari actually smiled, though this worried Vimes more than anything else could have. It was one of those lightning fast smiles, and seemed to speak with it’s own words. It said: I know a joke that you don’t know, and it’s on you.

“Hmm, how do you put it? ‘I want to be the one to kill the bastard myself’?”

“Something like that, sir.”

“He made a mistake with the method, though. Poisoning is not really your style. Beheading seems more like it.”

Vimes might have protested, but he remembered the axe that he had driven into the conference table in the Rats Camber.

“But do you really hate me _that_ much?” said Vetinari. If his voice had been deceptively light before, now it was as soft as a knife wrapped in satin. “Did it ever occur to you that you might get poisoned as well as me? You spent quite a bit of time here at the Palace, over that week.”

“Nosir.” Vetinari only looked at him in a way that made it clear that he expected more of an answer than that, and that he was quite happy to sit in silence until he got it. Vimes knew this look, he had learnt to use it on suspects himself. But knowing that it was being used and even knowing how to use it on others was not a guarantee that it would not work when Vetinari used it on him. He held out for a whole minute before he folded. “It would not have made a difference even if I did think about it.”

Vetinari raised an eyebrow slightly, as if to say: _There’s_ the punch line. Do you understand now?

“Really? You would knowingly risk your life, in an effort to save mine. Are you sure you hate me as much as you say?”

“That’s different. I can't have you die on my watch. Can’t have _anyone_ die on my watch. Professional integrity, and all that.”

“Ah yes, that must be it.”

Vetinari looked at Vimes in such a way as to convey: I don’t believe you at all, and I don’t think you believe yourself, either.

Vimes returned it with one of his own, which said: Don’t mention it. No really, don’t.

“That will be all, Commander.”

Vimes walked out dazed, and was far too preoccupied to punch the wall outside the office. The clock with the infuriating tick told him that it was 5:30 and he headed back to Scone Avenue to read to young Sam.

…

Vimes arrived back home with enough time to greet his wife at the door and sit down with her for coffee before reading to his son. He asked her about her day, but when she told him that Sir Flisbottom had exploded around lunch time and that she had spent the rest of the afternoon cleaning up the mess, he really did not seem very interested. He seemed to rally when he read “Where’s My Cow” to Sam, but Sybil saw that he did not put quite as much oomph into the animal sounds as usual. Then, when they had dinner he only picked at his food, and by the time they were had settled in the Slightly Pink Drawing Room for a rare evening together, Sybil had become incredibly worried. Vimes was often distracted at home, but that it was usually the sort where he was in the middle of the case and he was so driven he could barely sit still, let alone hold a conversation. Now he was just staring off into space.

“What’s the matter with you, dear?” She finally asked. “You have been distracted all evening.”

“It’s Vetinari. I’ve realised that I actually _care_ for the man.”

“Of course you do.” Sybil smiled with one part relief and two parts genuine pleasure. Didn’t she tell Havelock that he’d come around? “How about we have him over for dinner?”

“What! We can’t have the bloody bastard over here!” Suddenly he was back to his old self. Sybil smiled again. Havelock was not the only one who knew how to provoke a reaction out of him.

“Language, Sam, language!” Sybil chided him, though she was far too pleased for it to carry any sort of sting. “Besides, why _not_ have him over for dinner? You just admitted that you care for him.”

Vimes squirmed. He knew how this would turn out. What she insisted would happen, happened.

“Well, alright,” he said. After all, it was far better to concede to the inevitable now and pretend that he had some say in the matter, rather than surrender in ignominy later.


End file.
